


Could've Been Worse

by TimTheToaster (tabletoptime)



Series: Playing The Cards We're Dealt [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: A what-if John wasn't the unluckiest bastard around, Canon-Typical Violence, borderline crack at some points, not Parabellum-compliant, only close, so pretty freaking violent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabletoptime/pseuds/TimTheToaster
Summary: Luck, in their business, was a matter of debate. As much as they had those. Some swore by it, most called it bullshit.John Wick was one of those that knew luck existed, if only because his was so consistently shitty.





	Could've Been Worse

Luck, in their business, was a matter of debate. As much as they had those. Some swore by it, citing perfect weather on time sensitive jobs and traffic miracles to clean up getaways. Most called it bullshit. There would always be a random element to any work, but it could be accounted for by skilled enough players.

John Wick was one of those that knew luck existed, if only because his was so consistently shitty. Was why everywhere he turned there was another impossible task.

Get out of the Director’s Theatre. Enlist with the Marines.

Survive a CO that’s trying to get you killed in an active warzone. Leave the Marines early.

Find work he actually has the skills for. Fall in with the Tarasovs.

Fall in love. Find conditions to leave.

Kill every rival to the Tarasovs in one day. Trade a marker for Santino D’Antonio’s help.

Recover from Helen’s death. … Maybe a bad example. John hadn’t found a way to do that one yet.

But every job, every mission, every _task_ John had ever accomplished had always been in spite of luck rather than regardless of it. John’s real talent was making the best of a bad thing. It just so happened his entire life could be considered “a bad thing.”

Seven bullets. Could be worse. Could’ve been just the gun.

John had gotten very good at recognizing when he was about to be fucked over by circumstances. So good, he could usually start to try and mitigate the fucking over as it started. Maybe even use it to fuck over some other people when it hit. Everyone in the business was always on the lookout for dangerous people, but to ensure he wouldn’t die a stupid and embarrassing death, John stayed on the lookout for dangerous happenstances as well.

Which was why, although it took a second to recognize it happening to someone else, John _knew_ what was going to happen to Santino D’Antonio the moment he saw the laces on his fancy custom Italian shoes were loose.

If John had been anyone else, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. But John was himself, this last week had _sucked_ , and he could seize an opportunity by the throat as easily as a man.

So as D’Antonio turned to flee John fired at his feet ( _six_ ), stuttering his steps and all that artificial grace couldn’t quite keep him from stepping on a dangling aglet and-

_Gotcha._

Bullets two and three buried themselves in the skulls of the first two retainers, and John had to suppress the old instinct to double-tap. Not enough ammo, and pointless anyway.

He darted behind an art piece instead and rounded it, slamming his weapon into the throat of the man on the other side and catching the gun that slipped through the man’s fingers and emptying it in his gut-chest-neck-head.

No point wasting a blunt object. He pitched the emptied pistol over the statue to just past where D’Antonio had hit the floor. John was rewarded with a yelp and the sound of a body once more dropping to the tiles.

The statue was, unfortunately, taking heavy fire and wouldn’t last as cover much longer, so John slid around it, catching a shot in his shoulder, putting a bullet in the next man’s knee ( _three_ ) then his head ( _two_ ). Glinting steel caught John’s eye as the man fell so he pulled the knife from the man’s coat, and gave it a half-spin to adjust his grip.

Its balance was okay, he decided, pulling the knife’s owner up by the collar to block a round of fire from the last two men in the room. John drove forward three strides, then shoved the corpse at one man and shot the other ( _one_ ). He dove onto the fallen man, using his weight to drive the knife through his throat with a crunch.

John pulled it loose with a twist of his wrist and rolled off the body just in time to avoid being shot by, who a snap glance revealed to be… Ares. Right, her. Might be a problem.

D’Antonio was once again on his feet and trying to run, and Ares was between them. Definitely a problem.

Fine.

Shooting Ares was as ineffectual as he knew it would be, but following it up with the hurled gun was enough to get him in close. From there, it was less smooth.

Slashed, blocked, grabbed her arm and drove a knee into her gut. Wrestled the pistol from her grip and tossed it aside.

Took a blow to the side of the head that left that ear ringing, pulled back to avoid the second. Step forward with another slash, when she ducked out of the way, kicked her knee-

Halfway across the next room, D’Antonio was getting away and _no_ . So the knife. Thrown at a man running in a straight line maybe seventeen feet away, not difficult, and it _was_ satisfying to see it sink into the back of his knee, but it left him open for Ares.

And she was not afraid to press that advantage, slamming an elbow into his temple, a foot into his hip, a fist into his face, and sending him sprawling. She stalked forward, aiming a kick to his teeth, but John latched onto her foot and dragged her down, twisting as he pulled to pin her to the ground.

Then, grappling. All elbows, knees, and short, sharp blows. Ares somehow managed to get a switchblade in her hand, but John was still stronger and with longer reach. And he knew how to take a stab wound to win a fight. So when she jabbed at his throat for what felt like the dozenth time, he took the blade to the arm and punched her hard in the chin, snapping her head back. A roll and twist got her one arm pinned beneath his knee and left his hands free to crack her head into the tile, once, twice, again and _again_ until he could see blood and her expression went from dazed to slack.

Not technically dead, but no amount of suicidal loyalty would let her interfere now. Good enough.

John rose slowly, knees clicking, and glanced to where he’d last seen D’Antonio. Looks like he hadn’t made it far with a knife preventing his leg from holding any weight. Fancy that. A moment’s work found Ares’ discarded gun and a quick check confirmed it to have four bullets. Probably a good thing seeing as he was going to have to fight his way out of the building too.

Speaking of, as much as he’d like to take his time with this ( _his house, Helen’s_ **_home_ ** _-_ ), he probably had less than a minute before the rest of D’Antonio’s guards arrived in response to the gunshots.

John moved across the room, falling into the easy prowl of his youth that left his steps silent and ate the distance in smooth, sharp bites. D’Antonio was crawling forward, phone in hand and bright ( _probably called for help, don’t be here when they arrive_ ), and oh, he was glancing backwards which meant _eye contact_.

No grin, no smugness, all that oily arrogance drained away to leave an angry coward. A coward reaching for an inner coat pocket-

_Bang._

A coward with a hole in his head.

( _Three_ )

Time to move, best bet being back to the Continental since with D’Antonio dead he couldn’t exactly call off that seven million dollar bounty until John contacted Administration himself to tell them about the development. And a lot of things could happen during a phone call.

No good windows for an exit, unless he could get over the stupidly fancy iron-wrought fences he would be an easy target running for the gates. Not the kind of place to have an obvious backdoor, and John didn’t exactly have the time to go looking for his exit. So, front door it would have to be. Most straightforward, if the most irritating and likely to get him another injury.

But workable.

With reinforcements probably on the way and limited ammunition, John couldn’t just make them come to him, but he’d be a fool not to at least consider bottlenecking them. Which meant doorways. Except this place just had giant arches connecting the rooms, and those wouldn’t be half as effective.

Maybe he’d be best off rushing them and getting the hell out of here before the theoretical cavalry arrived. Reckless, but chances are they won't be expecting something so dumb. People tended to panic when someone ran _into_ gunfire rather than away from it.

As if summoned by the thought, a shot cracked into the far arch in a burst of plaster and the echo of running footsteps caught up a second later.

Eyes up. Three men, two women, five guns. A bullet to the throat of the point man ( _two_ ) ticked that number down as John dashed forwards into the woman now in the lead. He snapped out a hand to force her shot into the ceiling and stomped on her instep to bring her forehead in line with his pistol ( _one_ ).

Looked like they all stocked the same 9mm Glock, which was convenient because that meant the mags on her waist were more than an ugly belt. Which _meant_ the shot he put in the second woman’s head wasn’t a single motion but part of a transition into kicking the man behind her- shot, groin, knee, reload, _bang._ ( _Eighteen_ ).

Last man fired, but made the mistake of aiming center mass. Shoulder stinging from what would be one hell of a bruise, John returned fire. Apparently the guard’s suit wasn’t as high quality because the blood bloomed on his blazer and bright white shirt as he fell ( _s_ _eventeen_ ). And here was the time to double-tap ( _sixteen_ ) as John was absolutely _done_ with surprises.

Picking up the pace, John ran for the entrance. More men coming at him. Stealth would be a waste of time until he was outside so he tackled the next guard and rolled with it, taking the punch to the gut to put a bullet in his throat ( _fifteen_ ) and bring him to the feet of another. Grabbed his belt and used it as a hold to get up, swung the elbow into his crotch and shot him in the head when he dropped ( _fourteen_ ). Kept running.

The two on either side of the entrance were holding position rather than approaching which would have been a problem, if they could aim worth a damn. As it was, John took another three bruises and was down another two bullets but out the door.

Down the street two black vans were approaching the museum. Traffic looked to be New York standard, crowds were a little thin. Not ideal, but also not unusual. Gun away, and _go_.

Four blocks to the subway, then a train ride and another six to the Continental. Too much ground to cover without incident. Especially as he could already feel eyes on him from the couple seated at the bus stop and the woman walking her dog.

Drawing his gun again would sacrifice any chance at stealth, but not drawing it was putting him at a serious disadvantage. Compromise, hand on the gun in the coat. Not subtle, and still inconvenient but not overt. Running was out for the same requirement of stealth, so it was at a light jog John wove through the few people on the sidewalk at this hour, keeping a foot of space between himself and anyone else so as not to get stabbed on the off-chance he missed someone trying to kill him. Today was clearly not a day to fuck with chance.

With two blocks to go, John caught sight of a woman walking towards him and very deliberately not looking at him as she palmed something in her pocket. He was pretty sure he’d seen her in the lobby of the Continental when he checked in his dog.

Based on the shape of a loose fist he could see, it was probably a knife. John kind of regretted leaving Ares’ switchblade behind; a gun now would just escalate things. He released the hold on his pistol and slipped off his tie clip.

Predictably, when they were within a meter of each other she seemed to stumble towards him and her hand fell from her pocket and darted towards him as if to steady herself. He would have almost believed it had it not been for the blade slicing forwards. As it was, he reached out as well, catching the blade between the prongs of the clip and tugging her in close. His other hand closed around her wrist, thumb digging into the tendons and twisting to open her grasp.

Caught the knife as it dropped, slid it clean into her gut and dragged it out of her side. Let her fall and kept moving.

Tucked the tie clip back into place.

One block.

John was pretty sure he was being followed. Ideally, he’d lose them in the station. More realistically, he was probably going to have to fight at least one person on the train. Again.

Sure enough, halfway down the stairs he heard fast and heavy footfalls behind him. As they reached two steps behind him, John stepped backwards and dropped into a crouch. The man barreled into him, a knee knocking into John’s head, and went crunching down the stairs. From the blood, it looked like he hadn’t suppressed the instinct to throw his hands in front of his face despite the knife he was holding. Though he certainly dropped it after it went into his cheek and his jaw smashed into concrete.

Head throbbing, John hurried the rest of the way down and past the man’s crumpled form. Too many broken bones to be dangerous.

John was completely unsurprised to see the platform was largely empty with five minutes until a train going his way arrived. He was also unsurprised when the two hooded individuals spray painting the tunnel wall started throwing things at him.

Can- ducked. Knife- dodged. Knife- poorly thrown, blocked with an arm. Grenade? That was a bit surprising, so instinct kicked in and he caught it, blinked for a beat, and threw it back. Took out the one who threw it, but the other had moved behind a pillar after the second knife. The explosion was bad, probably attracted all sorts of attention. No point in subtlety.

Gun out, against the same pillar as hoodie-guy. Kid probably didn’t have a gun or he wouldn’t have started with throwing shit. Circled the pillar clockwise, heard movement in the same direction, paused and _there_ a head peering around the corner just enough to catch a bullet ( _eleven_ ).

Glanced back to the old woman down the platform. Those knitting needles were sharp and she seemed suspiciously nonchalant about all the noise. Only a couple more minutes to the train.

“Put that away, young man, it is remarkably undignified.”

Hm. She had a point. Tucking the gun back into his coat, John inclined his head, “My apologies.”

“I should think so, going about as if some of us don’t have better things to do than waste our time on such a small bounty,” she honest to goodness _huffed_ . “Now run along and sort this mess out. It is causing _quite_ the ruckus.”

“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”

 

\---

 

One unpleasantly tense train ride later, John emerged from the subway station six blocks south of the Continental. This was probably going to go poorly.

Alleys seemed like a good idea. It would almost double the length of the trip, but given that more people than not between him and the hotel were going to try and kill him, a little discretion was necessary.

Right, left, made eye contact with one of the Bowery King’s people, saw him glance over John’s shoulder. Darted behind a dumpster. Held as footsteps approach.

“Which way did he go?” Flash of gold, _now_.

The bowery man was grinning and pointing right at him when John stepped out and into the turning man. Slammed a fist to his throat as his eyes widened, and hooked his feet out. Followed him to the ground, taking an elbow right in one of the bullet bruises and redirecting the hand with a gun into firing at a wall. Knife, sunk it in his gut and _twisted_. Back out, then up; through the bottom of his skull, through both palates and crunching through the nasal passages.

Laughter, from the man on his blankets. Ignored it, kept moving.

Left, right, right, ducked into a doorway as a handful of young men sprinted by. Gave it another moment. Cut through a building and out the front door.

Two blocks.

People hustling on both sides of the street, eyes on him. Ducked the swing of an umbrella at his head and bolted.

Fuck it. He could run two blocks.

Pistol back out, and a sharp look at the reflections in the windows behind him. Three, all running. Only one gaining.

John snaked a hand onto a street sign, spun around it to fire at the fastest woman ( _ten_ ). Center of mass, hopefully enough to slow her down. Let the momentum carry him and kept going.

One block. He could see the doors-

 _Bang_.

A starburst of pain in the back of his thigh sent him into the sidewalk. Used his good leg to twist around and aim backwards. The same damn woman, blood dripping through her fingers and a snarl on her lips. No longer in motion his returned fire was easy, and he didn’t try to stifle the sense of satisfaction as she dropped with a bullet in the head ( _nine_ ).

But now he wasn’t faster than the other two and they’d had plenty of opportunity to catch up.  So as he pushed himself up using a news box, the bearded man who had been following crashed into him and sent them both down again.

Hard into the concrete, lost hold of his gun, tried to roll with it ended up going straight into the news box. Slammed the man’s head into the steel edge. Took a punch from fucking brass knuckles and felt his cheekbone crack. Dug his thumb into the man’s eye and curled it on the out, dragging with it a scream and buying the time to wedge his own knife in between them. Then John let the man’s next swing carry him into the blade, up and under the ribs.

Shoved off the weight, in time to see the second woman levelling a gun at him. John pulled the bearded man back in front of him, ignoring the burn in his forearms, and after four shots, rolled out to grab her coat and pull her into a headbutt. Did no favours for his pounding head, but it left her reeling long enough to get a grip on her throat and her wrist. Another two shots rang into the pavement, her free hand tried to claw at his face. Threw her headfirst into the news box. Neither of them released the gun, so he caught her other hand, let go of the first wrist to let it fall down the curb and _snap_ it with a foot while pulling her up towards him.  

The pistol hit the pavement as she shrieked. Dropped her into a kick to the jaw. Probably unconscious, but just to be sure John scooped up her gun and- Empty. At that revelation, John cracked its grip across her face and once again stood up.

A limp in his stride, he reached the Continental.

Carefully, _carefully_ , he hopped up the stairs and through the doors. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the lobby, and had to suppress the urge to start a fight before they could ( _go first for the man seated on the chaise to the right, use the lamp beside him, take his gun-_ ). 

As always, Charon was behind the desk and ran a critical eye over John’s state. “Business went well, Mr. Wick?”

“My business with Santino D’Antonio concluded the way we both knew it would,” John gave a very stiff shrug.

“Shall I inform Administration of the change in circumstances?” John was pretty sure Charon was laughing at him, behind that professional mask.

“Please do. And if you could send the Doctor up when he has a moment,” John almost turned to leave before remembering. “And my dog, please. Thank you.”

“It is our pleasure, Mr. Wick.”

An aching trip to and up the elevator, a very unimpressed visit from the Doctor, and a dog absolutely thrilled to see him. John was finally, _finally_ , settling down for the night with a drink ( _again courtesy of Management, Winston was going to be wanting a word soon_ ) when the phone rang.

He stared at it. The dog stared at it. The phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“We are sorry to interrupt your evening, Mr. Wick, but there is an Adjudicator at the front desk to see you. Shall we send them up, or would you prefer to meet them in the lounge?”

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooo this exists. Is it what I should have been working on? No. Is it what I wanted to be working on? Not really. Is it here anyways? Yup, because I watched the third movie five days ago and this hasn't left me alone since. 
> 
> Also, this fandom is tiny so I sincerely doubt anyone will care, but I did kind of enjoy writing it so at least there's that?
> 
> My writing blog is tablestoastandtime.tumblr.com :)
> 
> Update: I am working on a follow up, but I think I'll post it as a separate fic in a series with this one. It's called What We Bring to the Table and, fair warning, just under 1000 words in it is A Lot less action-y than this one. An excerpt:
> 
> "No point thinking about maybes though. Not with the Adjudicator sitting across from him, at a prim and precise angle. It was like they were being held in place by the razor wires of the High Table as their weaponized puppet.
> 
> Or it was just the clear stick up their ass. Had to be one of the two."


End file.
